


As the World Falls Down*

by echo_grace



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Oblivious Ineffable Husbands, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/echo_grace/pseuds/echo_grace
Summary: *Working Title. David Bowie says "Hello."Heaven and Hell have tried and failed to kill them. Now they must recover and find a new mission . . .(Brit-picking welcomed by this Texan.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Kudos: 6





	As the World Falls Down*

**Author's Note:**

> Here's to hoping a purge of fic-beginnings will free up some space in my brain-drive to finish my Tron trilogy. Outside of a few scenes, I don't really have a plot set up, and IDK if/when I'll get back to this. Anyone open to cowriting?

Chapter One

They’ve hardly left each others’ side – or the bookshop, for that matter – since their dinner at the Ritz last week. Aziraphale can’t help but be grateful to Crowley for not making an issue of it, not even in a joking form. Silly as it may sound, he’s just not ready to be alone again, but he cannot stand the thought of interacting with humans just yet either.

He catches himself musing over what their mutual Head Offices are doing while he waits for the pot to boil. According to Crowley, Gabriel’s attempt at forced suicide was relatively private, so there’s a chance Heaven as a whole is still more disturbed by the thrown battle than the failure to execute a traitor.

Hell, however, is a far different matter. What might the fallout be, and how can they prepare for it?

He almost says something to that effect as he steps from his kitchen into his office, a mug of hot cocoa in one hand and a new wine bottle in the other – only for his mouth to shut and a fond smile to bloom across his face instead.

Crowley, as usual, has sprawled himself across Aziraphale’s small couch, claiming it as his own. What makes Aziraphale smile is the gentle care he’s giving to the book he’s skimming through. It’s not even one of Aziraphale’s prized Books, but one of those modern “fictions” taking up the front of his shop . . . if memory serves, a film trilogy was born from it a few years ago.

“Ugh, this one’s _sadistic_ ,” Crowley declares, dropping the book with the barest audible _plop_ to the rug below. He flings his other arm across his forehead in a dramatic pose as he snuggles a bit further down into the cushion. “If this guy were real, Beelzebub would be out of a job soon.”

Aziraphale glances at the back cover as he puts his cocoa down to refill Crowley’s glass – and can’t hold back a snort. “Yes, many critics have voiced a very similar opinion.” The bottle clinks against the table, and their fingers brush as Aziraphale returns Crowley’s glass to his waiting fingertips. “Unfortunately,” he adds, straightening with his cocoa back in hand. “One must have such horrific drivel to hand if one wants to be the owner of a boosh- –”

The bell above the door _ding_ s, and their eyes clash together. “That door’s locked,” Crowley breathes.

“Fear not, my sons,” a woman’s voice calls from the front room. Crowley rolls up onto his feet in the eyeblink it takes Aziraphale to turn. “I wish neither of you harm.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement when they wedge themselves in the doorway, only to freeze in shocked awe. She wears a deep blue ladies’ business suit, blonde hair bobbed and curling just under her jaw. Her face is neither old nor young, Her only adornment the slight sheen of lip gloss on Her mouth . . .

A soft hiss escapes Crowley’s mouth as he cringes away. Aziraphale clasps his wrist before he gets too far, and drags him along into the room. “M-my Lord,” he stutters, falling to one knee and bowing his head, free arm crossing his chest to press against his heartbeat.

Crowley’s arm shakes terribly as silence builds among them. Aziraphale loosens his grip and lets it drift downward, interlacing their fingers when it settles in its new destination. Crowley squeezes painfully hard; Aziraphale answers by stroking the back of Crowley’s hand with his thumb. “I presume You’ve come to Judge us?”

She takes a couple steps towards them, only to pause. “If you consider a Blessing Judgement, then, yes, I suppose I Am.”

“A Ble- –” Hands cup around his cheeks; his hair bends slightly under the weight of a kiss . . . and a Light he hasn’t felt since his Creation fills him. His wings unfurl, stretching well beyond what they should indoors. He’s lifted up and off the floor, a calm, confident strength suffusing him, replacing the weight of fear and guilt beaten into him over the last six thousand years.

He could take on an army like this. Even bloody Gabriel would hesitate –

A sound catches at his ears a brief infinity later; terror and grief tug at his toes, reminding him where he is and who he’s with. He lets them pull him down . . . down to cover his cowering best friend’s back. “I’m here, Crowley,” he whispers against the demon’s ear as his arm and wing wrap around Crowley’s far shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere –”

“You can’t promise that,” Crowley bites, then chokes on a sob and recoils again in fear.

Aziraphale looks up helplessly and sees Her eyes welling with tears, easing the faint sting of Crowley’s words. His wing tightens, pulling Crowley close again. “We’re _safe_ , Crowley,” he argues back, pulling up Crowley’s sunglasses to wipe the tears from his face. “It’s going to be okay. That, I _can_ promise you.”

Crowley whines – there’s simply no other word to describe the sound – and clutches Aziraphale’s other hand to his chest . . . . Right where his heart would be, if he were human.

Aziraphale feels his mouth twitch upwards and nuzzles his way between Crowley’s hunched shoulder and ear, his lips pressing to skin just behind the curve before he breathes deep of Crowley’s scent – a mixture of woodsmoke and something sweet and cool Aziraphale has yet to identify – and begins to hum soothingly.

It works. Crowley crowds closer, leaning into Aziraphale’s warmth as his sobs and trembling ease. Aziraphale brings his other wing around to complete their embrace, glancing up a moment later when he remembers they have a guest waiting on them.

She’s chewing Her lower lip, literally failing to bite back Her smile in spite of the tears streaming down Her face. When their eyes catch, She lets it out full-force, and his entire being sings with joy. His eyes slip closed as he basks in it, his face shifting onto Crowley’s shoulder as the demon’s body starts to relax.

He’s drowsy, possibly edging into sleep when She speaks: “Aziraphale, could I trouble you for a cup of tea? This is going to take a bit.”

_Oh._ “Oh, of course! No trouble at all.” He jumps to his feet, wings returning to the fold. “Would You like anything in particular?” His hands wring, eager to get to work.

She smiles again, wiping away Her tears. “Something calming, if you have it, please.”

He babbles something about the water still being close enough to boil as he races to his kitchen.

* * * * *

“Thank You,” Crowley mumbles at Her feet. Part of him wants to be hurt that Aziraphale was sent away so easily, but he’s mostly relieved his angel won’t be witness to his imminent destruction –

“For what?” She asks, sounding surprised. She starts toeing off Her heels. “If anything, _I_ should be thanking _you_.”

Surprise shoots his eyes from Her toes to the level of Her belly button – if She bothers to have one – before he jerks them back down again. _What could You possibly thank **me** for?_

“For sticking to the Plan so well.” She kicks Her shoes off and away . . . and hesitates. “Though you don’t remember that part, do you.” Her tone is that of Disappointment, yet he can somehow tell it’s really Regret and Sadness She feels. His gaze retreats to the No Mans Land between them. “May I approach, Crowley?”

He blinks, then shakes his head and shrugs. “You’re God. You do what You want.” It comes out more Sullen Teenager than the Calm and Casual he was aiming for, making him wince.

She seems to understand him, though. Taking the few steps required, She kneels to sit at his level and carefully presses Her hands to the floor as She leans forward. “Have you ever wondered, Crowley, why you tend to think so much bigger than your fellow demons? Why you and Lucifer are the only Unforgiven to still have a pair of wings?” The fabric of Her skirt twinkles up at him like the stars he had wanted to run away to last week, Her questions pulling his gaze further up Her thighs.

“You mean Satan,” pops out of his mouth as the thought crosses his mind. He should probably wince again at the correction – who is he to correct God? – but he must’ve hit a point of numbness. He doesn’t really care how it comes out sounding.

She sways a bit, then Her arms shift for a shrug. “He’s still My son. And unlikely as it is, I have hope that Young Adam has gotten him to think a little more about his previous actions.”

Crowley snorts his doubt, his gaze again rising to chest level. He daren’t go any further. “What’s Your point?”

Her head tilts, hair fanning over a shoulder in his peripheral vision. “When I sent Lucifer Away, he took all his rebel angels, other angels he’d caused to doubt and question, and a few angels who had only dared to listen. Upon landing in Hell – but before he renamed himself – Lucifer wiped or warped every fallen angel’s memory of Home to discourage them from trying to return and ask forgiveness. You, of all his fallen, proved the most difficult to change. Because you, of all the fallen, had power equal to his own. That’s why he sent you to Earth – to ‘make trouble’ for humanity and stay out of his way. Which, coincidentally, is _exactly_ where I needed you.”

Crowley’s eyes go higher, though he knows they shouldn’t, and meet Her gaze. “What?”

“Would You like some biscuits as well, my Lord?” Aziraphale calls out from the kitchen, already banging through his cupboards.

“I would if you will, My dear,” She calls back. Then Her gaze returns to him, a smile teasing at Her mouth as Her head tilts again. “I made him for you, you know. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

**_What?_** Even in his head, it’s barely stronger than a squeak.

She chuckles and reaches out to cup his jaw in Her hands – only to pause again. “May I, Crowley?”

His chin lands in Her palms without waiting for permission from his mind. A shiver passes through him, his eyes rolling closed as he settles into their lovely heat. Warm lips press on his forehead. Her nose brushes against his as She shifts, and a cage he’d long forgotten starts to crumble around him.

“RETURN TO ME, RAPHAEL,” Her Breath puffs against his mouth.

Weight drops away, and he takes his first deep breath in over six thousand years.

* * * * *

He’s likely going a little overboard with his eagerness to Serve, but how often does one get a chance to host God Herself? Aziraphale eyes his best tea set critically, debating if he should miracle it clean one more time, just to make sure it’s sparkling – then decides against it as the kettle starts to whistle. He gathers everything together on the tray, checks it over, and heads out –

– only to pause at the undoubtedly intimate scene before him. Crowley’s heaving for air like he actually needs it, and the Lord . . . . If these two were any other beings, he would wonder if they sent him out of the room so they could do that ‘making out’ thing humans keep talking about.

A pang of Something he doesn’t want to name stabs at him, making the tray shake in his hands. The Lord’s eye opens, and failure weighs him down when it turns his way –

“Such prompt service, Aziraphale!” She praises, straightening. “I would have expected a few more seconds of dithering. Please, come join us.” Her nearest hand pulls away from Crowley’s skin to pat the floor between them before returning to Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale rushes to do so, an odd heat rising in his cheeks. He fumbles with the tea, offering every variant of cream, sugar, and lemon until Her hand stills his. “Plain is perfect for Me, My dear. You needn’t panic so.”

She winks, and air gushes out of him until his shoulders return to their natural place. “So sorry. I don’t meant to make a scene –” he breaks off, surprised at the odd purring sound suddenly rumbling from Crowley’s chest as the demon rubs his cheek into Her palm. “C-Crowley, are you alright?”

“’m fine, angel,” Crowley slurs, deep amber eyes blinking sleepily at Aziraphale before he shifts to lay his head in Aziraphale’s lap instead. “Jus’ tired,” he ends with a sigh.

“And he likely will be for the next several days,” She says, taking a sip of Her tea. She hums approval and reaches for the plate of biscuits. “Do sit up, dear, and have a little nibble. It’ll help you process everything better.”

Crowley grumbles something that sounds like a miffed meow, but does as he’s told. He sandwiches two biscuits together and takes a tiny, aggressive bite – only to jerk his other hand up to catch the crumbs as his narrowed eyes flash a glare at Her.

“What? I didn’t do it,” She smirks at him. Crowley answers with another grumble.

“Process what? – if I may ask,” Aziraphale puts in, second biscuit paused halfway to his mouth.

“Do you wish to tell him, or shall I?” She asks Crowley, nudging the plate of biscuits toward him in encouragement.

The purring sound returns as Crowley reaches for a third. Still chewing through his sandwich, he flicks a _shoo_ -ing motion at Her.

Setting Her teacup back in its saucer, She accepts it as permission to answer. “Lucifer severely damaged every angel he took with him into Hell, so much so that few have more than a flicker of memory of what they’ve left behind. And, since most have had little to no interaction with humanity, let alone their angelic brethren, none have healed as much as Crowley has,” She reaches out and clasps Aziraphale’s hand. “You have slowly revived him over the last six millennia, and I cannot thank you enough for it.”

“ _‘He’_ hears You just fine, Y’know,” Crowley mutters through his crumbs, then pointedly slurps his tea.

“Good to know your ears work better than your manners,” She says, pulling Her hand away.

Aziraphale gasps when Crowley shoots Her a two-fingered gesture. “ _Crowley –!_ ”

Her laughter interrupts him. “Oh, Me, how I’ve missed you, My darling.”

Aziraphale’s gaze bounces between them as Crowley stills and drops his eyes, a faint flush staining his cheeks. “You knew each other . . . . Personally?”

“Could say that.”

“He’s the only angel who has any knowledge of My Plan, and how it would’ve easily warped into a Great Plan that’s no good for anybody.” She shifts Her weight to lean on Her palm and smiles at Crowley. “It’s why he’s fought so hard to keep the world spinning the last dozen years.”

Aziraphale splutters. “Wh- I don’t underst- –”

“Don’t,” Crowley cuts him off. His eyes look up at Her and away again. “Please. ‘M not ready for that.”

She nods. “As you wish, My dear.” Then She turns back to Aziraphale. “To answer your original question, I’ve restored Crowley’s memory from before the Fall, and he’s going to need a lot of rest to process and adjust to everything.” She reaches toward Aziraphale again, a business card suddenly pinched between two fingers. “Here’s My personal mobile number – not even the Metatron has it. If Crowley’s still abed in ten days, give Me a call.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Aziraphale breathes, taking it.

Her hand captures his jaw before he can bow over it. “You get some rest as well, My boy. You both will have much to teach your students, beginning week after next.”

“Teaching –?”

“Students?” Aziraphale squeaks, images of grubby hands tpuching and tearing and _dog-earing_ his Books . . .

“Angels who’ve long grown tired of their leaders’ hypocrisy,” She answers Crowley first, then turns back to him. “Demons who want to follow in Crowley’s footsteps and hopefully find their way Home, as he has.”

A relieved sigh gusts out of him. Surely that won’t be too bad, then –

“And of course Young Adam and the half-dozen other humans present at the Non-Apocalypse. With a bit of tutoring, I think they’ll make great co-teachers as well in the coming years.” With that, She stands and smooths the wrinkles from Her skirt.

They rise as one as She leans to get Her shoes. “Will we see You again?” Aziraphale can’t help asking.

“Not anytime soon. Nor so directly, if all goes well.” She hooks Her shoes over Her shoulder and huffs a sigh. “A little spoiler alert, should the question arise: the true Armageddon will not reach Earth until humanity has settled itself among the stars. And even then, the fight will only revive the planet for a new round of Life, not destroy it.” Her eyes linger on Crowley a moment before She nods and heads for the door –

“Mother –?” Crowley calls, stepping forward as a hesitant arm reaches toward Her.

Her surprised look softens into a beaming smile. “Of course, Darling,” She says, then skips into tackling Crowley with a hug. They cling to each other, and Aziraphale briefly wishes for some kind of artistic ability, so he could capture and hold this moment forever.

“I could not be more Proud of you both,” She murmurs into Crowley’s ear, before kissing his temple and releasing him.

An almost-covetous _want_ flashes through Aziraphale as they part, and his breath catches as She turns to him and reaches . . . . He falls into Her arms and sighs.

_Trust your Instincts, My dear_ , Her heart whispers into his. _I gave them to you for a Reason._ “I Love you two, so much,” She adds aloud before pressing Her lips to his temple and letting go. “Now, go get your rest and enjoy your vacation. You’ve more than earned it by now.”

They bow acceptance to Her command, and with that, She departs between one eye blink and the next. The bell above his shop’s door jingles again, though the door itself doesn’t move.

“. . . Well,” Aziraphale huffs after a long moment. Crowley snaps his tea set and tray back into the kitchen. “I suppose we’d best get on that – I do hope you don’t mind sharing, Crowley.” A yawn catches him at the end, slightly warping the demon’s name. His eyes tear up under its strength.

Amusement is still radiating from Crowley when he blinks them clear. “It’s _your_ bed, Angel. I should be asking you about sharing.”

A protest that he only has one in case Crowley ever needed it slips through Aziraphale’s mind, but never reaches his lips. “Well, then,” he says instead, gesturing to the back of the building. “Shall we?”

Bits and bobs of their clothing melt away – jackets and belts, ties and cufflinks – as Aziraphale follows Crowley upstairs, until there’s naught but their shoes, Aziraphale’s waistcoat and Crowley’s sunglasses to remove when the lights flick on upon their entry.

It’s a bit larger and far cleaner than Aziraphale had anticipated. The bigger bed has fresh linens, and there’s even a reading chair tucked into a corner among his bookcases that he didn’t have before. It’s so much Homier and more Right that he almost doesn’t flinch at the memory of the last time he’d been in here . . . that horrid night when he prayed in fervent terror that he hadn’t given his demon a suicide pill, back in the seventies.

He shakes it off – thanks to Crowley’s trial, he knows exactly what it had been used for – and starts unbuttoning his waistcoat, bared toes already scrunching in the plush rug under his feet.

“You have a side preference?” Crowley asks, sitting on the window-side of the bed to toe off his own shoes.

_Of course not._ “No. Take whichever you prefer.”

Crowley answers by edging a bit further in before stretching out with a sigh, ankles crossing and fingers intertwining over his stomach.

Aziraphale pauses on his last button and tilts his head in amusement. Somehow, he’d expected a more . . . starfish-ed design from the demon. He shakes his head at himself and knees onto the bed “Oh – you won’t be needing these anytime soon,” he says, plucking Crowley’s sunglasses from his head. He folds and lays them on the bedside table (had that been there before?) before settling himself in.

Crowley snaps the lights off, and they roll to face each other in the not-quite-darkness. They stare at each other for a long moment, the sounds of Soho sneaking in to join them.

Eventually, Aziraphale reaches to cup Crowley’s cheek, thumb caressing over the bone. “Your eyes have changed,” he whispers like a secret, thumb reaching to stroke the bridge of Crowley’s nose as the demon’s eyes flutter. “They’re a lovely deep amber now – could be mistaken for hazel.” His thumb strokes across half of Crowley’s lips, parting them gently. “Their shape has shifted to more human, too. You don’t need to hide anymore.”

Crowley leans in, Aziraphale’s hand sliding to cup the nape of his neck as their lips press together. Several more kisses follow, all soft and chaste. Innocent. Time passes into silence before they part.

“Thank you, Angel,” Crowley murmurs against his lips, then wiggles down to press his head to Aziraphale’s chest, their feet tangling over the duvet as his arm tightens around Aziraphale’s waist.

Aziraphale smiles and breathes Crowley’s scent in deep, letting it out with a sigh. “You’re welcome, my dear.”

Sleep settles over them without the slightest hint of battle.


End file.
